


Following the Script

by westolethelight (Llama)



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/westolethelight
Summary: The problem with living inside stories is that you might not be living in the right one.
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49
Collections: Peter and Carl fics to lift our spirits during self-isolation





	Following the Script

**Author's Note:**

> Er, this was supposed to be for the 'what really happened at the football stadiums' prompt, but it got away from me and that part didn't fit any more. I still have it planned but that will be a different story now! I suppose this does broadly fit the 'behind the scenes' prompt, depending on what the prompter was hoping for :)
> 
> Written very quickly, and I hope it makes sense! There are a couple of swear words, and I consider that fits under the 'general' rating when it's the Libs. Your mileage may vary.
> 
> Oh, and I intended to format the 'script' scene properly, but cannot work out how to do it on here without ugly blockquote lines down the side, so apologies for that.

Nothing's ever been simple with Carl.

Carl used to say it would be a bad idea for them to get a place together, even though Peter had never brought it up. He was happy where he was, Peter was better off travelling up and not paying London rent (as if that was ever going to be part of the plan.) Then Peter told Carl without even thinking, without any intent behind it, how this guy Gordon had offered him a room at his place. The next minute they were moving in to their very own dingy little hole and Peter was lying mostly awake next to Carl _every night_ because the place only came with one mattress and they had barely enough money for food, let alone furniture.

With anyone else, that would have been enough. There would have been a drunken bedtime kiss on the cheek that sort of missed, an unfortunate bodily reaction one morning, a sleepy oops-I-forgot-who-I-was-snuggling incident, and everything would have snowballed from there. He's not saying they'd have been planning a wedding and adopting dogs by now (cats maybe) but every romance novel he's ever sneaked a look at – it's a crime to leave any book or genre untried – tells him that's what's supposed to happen.

But Carl just says "'S'okay," when Peter plants a sloppy one a little closer to Carl's mouth than cheek and apologises for it. He mumbles "Can't you get your dick under control," when Peter is pressed up happily against his back in the morning. As for the sleepy cuddles, Carl seems to have developed a sixth sense for when Peter is about to push his luck, and regularly bolts out of bed yelling "First in the bathroom!" leaving Peter flushed and confused.

Carl hasn't been playing along with Peter's expected narrative, but given how unpredictable Carl can be over the smallest of things, he supposes he should have expected that. He also should have considered that Carl is following his _own_ script, but for some reason that has only just occurred to Peter. 

EXT. WATERLOO BRIDGE – PREVIOUS NIGHT

PETER leans over the side of the bridge, watching the lights of the city ripple on the water. CARL leans back against the railing, cigarette in hand.

PETER: (turning to Carl) Why are we here?

CARL: (takes a long drag, wilfully misunderstands) That's a very philosophical question for a man who's only had two beers.

PETER: Not what I meant, and you know it.

Silence, or as close as you can get in the middle of a city bridge at 2am.

PETER: So...? (steals the cigarette when CARL doesn't reply)

CARL: (matter of fact) Fucker.

Pause, then they grin at each other.

CARL: I've always wanted to kiss someone here.

PETER: (not catching on) Yeah? I suppose it is kind of--

CARL takes the cigarette from PETER's fingers and drops it, then leans in and kisses him on the lips. The kiss goes on for a while, and when the surprise wears off, PETER catches hold of CARL's sleeve and kisses back. Eventually, CARL steps back and clears his throat.

PETER: –romantic.

CARL shrugs, then walks away. After a moment, still slightly stunned, PETER follows.

Yeah, that could be how it was for Carl. 

Or maybe Peter's wildly overthinking it. Perhaps it's just easier on Peter to imagine Carl has his own reasons for not mentioning the kiss, or behaving any differently from normal after that.

The thing is, he _knows_ Carl. Not the details, not every little thing about him (yet), but the boy. The man. The way he sees things, experiences things. The little twists he has on reality that are almost but not entirely unlike Peter's.

Stop, start, flicker. Black and white world, black and white scenes. The drama of the moment, silhouetted against the lights of late night London. But what was that moment in Carl's mind? A chance meeting, a stolen, spontaneous kiss, never to be repeated? Star-crossed lovers parted by war, or family, or obligation? A single romantic scene, preserved in perfect splendour while the characters go back to their mundane lives; a moment to be revisited in solitary moments, and sigh over what might have been?

Peter can appreciate the beauty of all of those scenarios. Really, he can. 

Just not for any story starring him and Carl.

The park's a stupid place to go in winter, but the snowdrops are out and it's not too cold for a picnic if they wrap up well.

The patch of grass behind the park-keepers cabin is a well-kept secret. In the summer Peter has lain down under the tree that blocks the view from the path and looked up through the green canopy, imagining himself there with a friend. Someone who might be more than a friend, that he might regard with a certain unrestrained fondness out here where they are hidden from the world. The imaginary person never really had a face until now.

"Very 'Brideshead Revisited'," Carl says, when Peter leads him through the broken fence and lays his overcoat down for them to sit on.

Peter's heart thuds, because he knew Carl would get that, but it still means Carl probably realises Peter... regards him with a certain unrestrained fondness, one might say.

And he does, when they've finished their lunch, and they lie down under the tree to digest it. He gazes at Carl lying next to him, eyes closed and profile sharp against the pale sky, and feels giddy from looking his fill in daylight.

When the chill forces them to move, Carl pulls him up and gives him a kiss on the cheek. It thaws Peter's face briefly, but the warmth doesn't last long.

"Thanks for bringing me," he says. "I like it here."

He obviously means it, but they make their way home with at least a foot between them the whole way, and Peter can't help but feel they're moving backwards instead of forward. 

What is he missing? Peter needs to think about this.

However much he thinks, his mind circles back to _script_.

Script. Setting, scene, lines? 

Huh.

They trip down dark, narrow alleyways, laughing, pushing and shoving to be the first onto the fire escape, first onto the rooftops, first to reach the highest spot. Carl catches on fast that they are headed _there_ , the place where they first sat with chipped mugs of tea and roll-ups barely worthy of the name cigarettes, and watched the sun come up over London, light-headed and exhilarated in the way they only get when they can't remember when sleep last happened. 

This time Peter has whisky, half a bottle stuffed into his pocket that Carl hasn't noticed yet. Peter is looking forward to indulging a bit, because he's spent _so much_ time thinking about this that he's exhausted, and the best he's come up with is that of course it isn't working. He's been trying to make their storylines merge, when what they need to do is create a new one. Not work from a script dictated by films from forty years ago, and not from the books Peter used to daydream over. They need their own story. One where they _both_ fit. 

Honestly, this stuff is hard work. Peter has spent most of his thinking time marvelling at how anyone _ever_ gets a relationship to happen.

"Hey, look," he says, kicking over the milk crate he may or may not have stashed up there earlier and giving Carl a bow. "Your throne, my liege."

Carl doesn't look as impressed as he should (dragging that crate up the narrow stairs was a right pain), and spends far too long lighting a cigarette while he looks moodily across the rooftops, so Peter claims the seat. It's not like he'd planned to let Carl have it all to himself anyway. 

The glug of Peter knocking back a mouthful of whisky catches Carl's attention fast enough.

"Good man," he says, shoving Peter up to get his fair share of the upturned crate and reaching for the bottle. "Knew there was a reason I keep you around." There's a sharp curve at the side of his mouth that passes for a smile, so Peter huddles closer to Carl's warmth. The shiver is only a little bit exaggerated, and he's rewarded with Carl's arm sneaking under his jacket to hold him closer. It might just be to keep them both balanced, but maybe it could be more.

"I thought about--" Peter stops because it's his turn with the bottle again, and he takes a long swig. It burns so nicely going down that he just appreciates it for a moment.

"About?" Carl kicks Peter's foot gently.

"When we were up here before. The first time."

"It was nice." It feels like Carl's cuddling closer, but he's probably just getting comfortable.

"Yeah." Peter takes a deep breath. 

The special 'them' setting is only half of the plan. The rest of it requires him to actually say something, not just try to bring it into existence by wishful thinking. He needs _lines_ , though he doesn't exactly have the words planned. 

He decides to go with nothing but the truth. That way the _scene_ part might take care of itself.

"It was the first time I realised how much I wanted to kiss you."

"You didn't though." Carl's face seems very close suddenly, and Peter can feel his breath, warm, smoky, and sweet with whisky, on his face. Maybe he hasn't screwed this up. Unless Carl is going to bite him or something. 

It wouldn't be the first time.

"No," Peter murmurs, and his fingers are on Carl's cheek, his temple, resting in his hair, and Carl's mouth is open against his, warm and wet, and his lips are _so soft_ , and why didn't Peter notice that last time?

Too busy thinking. He's done with that, now he's all about the kissing. God, it's better than he ever imagined.

"You do--" Peter really doesn't want Carl to talk right now, but Carl pulls away just far enough to put a finger over Peter's lips for a second. Peter resists the urge to lick it before it goes away. "You do want this, then?"

It's still too dark to see Carl's expression, but Peter can hear the uncertainty in his voice. 

"Idiot," he says fondly, and after an outraged second, Carl thumps him hard in the stomach. 

It's good to know some things are never going to change.


End file.
